Heathrow

The work must be approached aesthetically or not at all. ART was ART, and morality was morality, and never the twain could, would, or should meet.

I'm faced with nothing to write. Which probably means that I shouldn't. But I try to write every day. A sort of therapy, I suppose. The only therapy I'll allow myself, even though others may suggest that I should do the proper sit down sort. Maybe one day I will. Right now I feel it a great waste of money to pay someone to listen to me. I'd rather talk to a friend. I think I would get more out of talking to a friend, so long as they were a good friend, who were straight forward and caring. Although I'm certainly not knocking those who find proper therapy healing and worth the money.

I just drank tea, ate some ginger cookies, and watched the British soap opera EastEnders. This is an (almost) nightly ritual. Someone in Britain uploads the episodes on YouTube for those of us who, when we lived in Britain, became hooked on it and now, living elsewhere, can't watch it on telly or bbc iplayer, the online television viewing station that you can watch for free only in Britain

I did not do much today. When I was taking classes and working part time at the library I would look forward to having Sundays off to do as I like. Now that I have every day off (essentially) I don't relish it, and spend the time waking at 12:00 and fiddling away the day watching poker on telly. Romantic thoughts of laying on my couch reading the day away, thoughts that I used to have as an undergraduate, aren't quite so fulfilling in realization.

I take walks around my neighbourhood, while listening to my cd player -- my ipod having become dounced with water while in my bag at Heathrow after leaving, unbeknowst to me, an opened water bottle in it. I was so sick at Heathrow before coming home from London in April that I thought I would not be able to make it the two hours I had to wait to board the plane. I had not slept the night before. I literally could not. My anxieties came to a fore. I thought I would not wake in time for my driver to pick me up. I was sure I would miss my flight. All the confidence I had the first time I lived in London entirely gone. London part deux had taken that out of me, against my will.

The worst was that I was alone in the airport, surrounded by so many strange people, searching for an empty row of seats to rest my weary head. I was alone. I once had a dream so vivid that when I woke from it I was crying. I was in a doctors office. They had to perform a surgery on me but had to keep me awake during and it was suppose to be very painful. It was not the thought of the pain that hurt me, but knowing that no one was there for me to hold my hand or hold me during the operation, and that I did not even have the consolation of knowing that someone would be there after. I knew that if only I had someone there, or knew that someone would be there for me after, the physical pain would not be as intense.

There are some times in our lives that it seems impossible to get through on our own. I was lucky that there was a chemist in the part of the airport I was in and they could give me a drug to relieve my nausea. Drugs. Wonderful things. Cure all sorts of evils, while sometimes creating others. Drugs are there for us when people are not.

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A Modern Comedy: John Galsworthy, 358